I just want to say that I'm not exactly sure what this is going to be or what. I guess it's just a collection of stories and such, all relatively small. Feel free to comment on it and such.
This is an account of a set of lives, snapshots from the existence of many different individuals. Together they create a picture of youth as it is seldom seen. So many people view youth as a time in which everything is carefree, in which these young ones are free from the cares of the world. But in reality, there is no time in which we can escape from reality. We are all bound to it, like a picture placed inside the frame from which it cannot escape from.
These snapshots form a scrapbook, the people and the places freely mixed, evoking different memories from every person who has the fortune of gazing upon them. Perhaps this scrapbook shall seem pointless, to those who cannot understand the turmoil unless they are placed directly in it. But I believe that all can understand my pictures, and find all of the beauty and horror that are hidden in each one.
This is a true view of life.
It was my birthday, which for some reason made the typical spring day seem so much more important than any other spring day. I was much different then, those holidays actually mattering to me. I loved them, especially the ones that were centered around myself. But, somehow, even though this was supposed to be my day, things were much different every year. But this year would be different, I knew it would be.
I walked home quickly from school, covering the mile easily in fifteen minutes. My bag was light, mostly due to me neglecting to take home most of the work that had been assigned to me. This was my day, and there was no way that I would allow the simple work of school to interfer with my day. I was sure that I would pay the price with a scolding the next day, but that was relatively unimportant. I lived for the day, and I was going to make this day perfect.
I came in to find both of my parents in a rage. Fighting again. There were a few broken glasses on the floor, with their alcoholic content spilled upon the floor. Both of them were at it again, and their anger only grew when they drank. I guess, at that age, that I didn't truly understand the link between their drinks and their violence. Granted, they were always angry at each other, but they never fought like this without the drinking. I guess that was one of the nice things about being young: ignoring alcoholism was so much easier.
I dropped my bag and went towards the screaming, which went back and forth with words that made no sense. I finally entered the kitchen, their typical arena, though neither of them took notice to me. They were fighting about money again, her spending it all and him working overtime in order to provide for the basic things we needed around the house. She proceeded to take a decorative plate she had recently bought off the wall and, with angry words about how she didn't really need all these things and he was useless, smashed it into his face.
Blood streamed from his nose, though he wasn't stunned for long. His arm swung across the room, and the back of the hand of which we all knew so well smacked her across the face. She yelped slightly as her face turned scarlet, but it was clear that neither of them would back down. I just stood their, horrified, as the smacking, punching, biting and kicking ensued. They both finally fell to the ground, both bleeding, both red, both heaving as they grasped for air.
I made my way out of the room, trying to find a place where I could hide. This would only get worse, and I did not want to hear it. I wanted to scream or cry, but I knew that should I do either of them, show anger or sorrow, I would swiftly become the focus of both of their violence. And so I went outside and walked down my block until I came to a house with large bushes growing in front of a highly elevated bay window. I crawled into the bushes and began to cry. This was my day, and they were both home to celebrate it. They celebrated with their own weaknesses.
After hours of crying so hard that I felt I would choke, I finally was able to drag myself out of the bushes. The sun was already setting by the time I made it back to my house, and as I walked in the door, my parents sat together in the living room. Upon my enterance, I could see that they were angry, but now with me. I braced myself for the worst as questions came as to where I was and why I hadn't come home. I tried hard to explain with lies, but after their constant disbelief and I screamed out about the incident I had seen. My young words then could not describe all that I felt, but I felt that they were strong.
Then they began to argue over me, with my mother smacking me hard across the face and telling my father it was all my fault that I ended up so violent towards her. He looked at me, cowering on the floor, my eyes tearing again from the pain and already red from the hours in the bushes, and he decided to spare me. He yelled at my mother that it was her that did it, making me lazy and willing to do anything to cover up my wastefullness. They argued back and forth and finally my father told her to be quite or he would hit her. She rushed him and swiftly met his closed fist. She fell and he said that he was leaving.
He then walked past me, looked at me on the floor, and turned his head away. He said that he might not be back, but he would send enough for at least me to get by and that I shouldn't let my mother take any of it because she would simply take everthing she could for nothing. With that the door open and was slammed shut. My mother than found the will to get up, and looked at me. She blamed me for his leaving, and proceeded to beat me even more. Somehow she always seemed more violent, her blows more powerful and destructive than my fathers. He would simply strike me open handed, far from full force, on the face or in the back. Stinging blows. She punched me in the stomach a few times and then once in the mouth. I could taste the blood. She turned to leave and I managed my only attack, thanking her for the birthday present. She came and kicked me in the side before she finally left.
I went to wash myself up, crying as I stood before the little sink in the bathroom. My face looked so sorry and pathetic I wanted to cry for it, until it came to me that it was indeed me, and this was my home. We couldn't cry in my home. I began to brush my teeth, trying to get the taste of blood. I looked up in the mirror and saw my mother. I dropped the toothbrush and spun around, my heart racing in terror. She said she was sorry and she left. But in all reality, actions speak louder than words. Never again did I celebrate a birthday.[/b]
